Wing Commander: Clean Sweep
by Pope Guilty I
Summary: In 2641, a group of rookie pilots are thrown into the fire as Task Force 37 raids into Kilrathi occupied space. Four new pilots learn that being a hot shot fighter pilot isn't as glorious as the vids make it.   beware of typos
1. Chapter 1

**Clean Sweep**

**Chapter 1**

**Flight Deck**

**TCS **_**Tennessee River**_

**Delius System**

Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcus Pershing sat back in the flight couch of his brand new F-105 _Scimitar_. The fighter was fresh out of the package. It was his first combat mission, like half of squadron Tenn'Court A. It was not to say it was his first time in his _Scimitar_. He had plenty of flight time on the trip out here, near the anti-coreward fringes of the Vega Sector. More than enough time to familiarize himself with the control and to rack up several hours' worth of touch-and-goes. It was nowhere as near as sporty as the _Rapiers_, what with only having a pair of pulse cannons and six hardpoints (only two of which carried IR missiles). Those hotshot space superiority pilots gave the pilots of Tenn'Court A hours of grief over them flying venerable crates on babysitting missions.

Pershing, callsign 'Mailman', had ever intent on making Tenn'Sup B's eat their words. If they were half as good as they claimed, how come they were not sitting on the flight deck, preparing to escort the A-14s of Tenn'Strike B against the Kilrathi ships in orbit of Delius II. Their C.O.'s excuse was that somebody needed to guard the barn while the peons were out protecting the _Raptors_. His own Wing Commander, Commander Mira 'Kali' Kishna, a mean looking woman who was actually born on the Indian subcontinent, ordered he pilots to ignore those jackassess and focus on their mission.

He was sixth in line of the F-105s to launch. Traffic control just announced on the mission's frequency that the last of the _Raptors_ has just launched. First up for the _Scimitars_ was Kali herself. She was a mean one, with a scowl that would probably send the Cats running if they ever saw her in a pissed off mode– which was pretty much most of the time. She was also a vet of Second Enyo, as well as half-a-dozen earlier battles flying off the _Victory_ She might not be friendly, but Kali was all business, and nobody doubted her competence. Certainly none of her former comrades on old Vicky, whom were all part of Task Force 37 along with the carrier _Libertè_. Both were older _Concordias_, capable of carrying half the fighter compliment as Tin Man, as the _Tennessee River_ was so affectionately called.

He watched as the fifth _Scimitar_ launched, his wingman, so to speak. That fighter was piloted by on Lieutenant Candice 'Candy' Elliot, another pilot from Earth. He could not remember exactly which part of the American District she hailed from; somewhere on the Pacific. She had the least original of callsigns, but was not as sweet as her name might imply when she was in the cockpit. Each of the five new pilots was assigned to the wing of the five veteran pilots. Candy missed Second Enyo by a few months, but was there for the whole patrol of the Vega System Patrol last year, and shot down a number of Kilrathi fighters during their constant raiding of the sector's capital.

He really did not know any of his squadron that well. He spoke to Candy quite a bit, seeing how he was assigned to her wing during all the training missions as well. She inevitably asked about his own callsign. Pershing was tagged by that in flight school. With a simulator score of over ninety-nine percent, his instructor told him that he always delivered the package, and grumbled about how much he wished the postal service was as efficient. After which, the name stuck.

He watched as Candy's fighter leapt out of the launch tube, accelerated by electromagnets. The _Scimitar_ was sure ugly looking, with its pulse cannons sticking so far forward, and its cruising engines sitting like giant bulbs on top of its wings. Its appearance aside, it was still as lethal as its namesake, and would slice through a flight of _Dralthi_ like they were pancakes. Appropriate metaphor considering their appearance.

"Mailman, you're up!" the flight controller, an Ensign by the name of Smitty. He did not hail from anywhere on Earth, and Pershing was at a loss to his homeland.

"Acknowledged," he replied, tapping the flight stick and rudders, to move the fighter into position. Or tried to. Most of the work was done by internal tractor beams. With the space drives active, the _Scimitar_ just hovered in place, as if gravity around it was simply shut down. A few old-fashion tractored vehicles were parked along the bulkhead, well clear of flight actions, in the event the tractor beams failed. He already had to fly a couple of training missions with those towing him around. Back-ups were the only reason the landing struts of all fighters still had wheels on them.

Pershing relaxed and leaned back into his acceleration couch. Despite centuries worth of compensating for inertia, these sudden launches still pressed on him. More than one of the rookie pilots in his squad received a bad case of whiplash when they did not lean back into their seats before launch. He heard a short countdown, and at zero felt as if he just tripled his weight. His fighter shot out of the front of the _Tennessee River_ like a pellet from a cannon. One hundred meters passed swiftly, at which point, Pershing yanked his stick to the right, causing his fighter to veer out of the carrier's way. Pilots who did not veer out of the way tended to have their engines pushed into their back, as the next fighter on the catapult slammed into them.

In space, his own fighter's space drive took control, nullifying any sensation of acceleration. Fighters, being so much smaller than the capital ships, always had a bit of trouble keeping up when it came to compensating. If he pulled tight enough turn, he would feel it, albeit at a fraction of a fraction of what his true acceleration where. If the space drive where to fail, the G-forces would turn him into pulp. Of course, if it ever failed, he would not be able to maneuver anyway.

He pulled his fighter into formation, fifty meters off and ten behind, Candy's fighter. "Glad you could join me," she called over the radio.

"The pleasure's all mine," he said, fighting to keep his nerves down. This was it, his first combat mission. He would either come back blooded, or not at all. The only thing worse than getting shot into a million pieces, some no bigger than quarks and gluons, would be to fail his wingman.

Candy was once a green pilot, and guessed what ran through his mind. "Relax Mailman. Stick to me like a tick on a doe and you'll be fine." Not the most flattering image to project into Pershing's head. Did ticks not burrow their whole heads into their hosts? "Just remember the mission. I'm Sickle Five, and you are number Six."

He was not so daft as to already forget the briefing. He was about to voice his opinion, but decided to keep his trap shut. Tenn'Court A was Sickle, and Tenn'Strike B was Hammer. A few guys over in Ops got a laugh out of it, but Pershing could not quite see what was so funny about hammers and sickles. They were just tools.

"Hammer Flight is in place," came the voice of Tenn'Strike B's Wing Commander. It was a high British accent, something that just screamed old money and class. He was another of the Second Enyo vets.

"Sickle Flight, call out," ordered the voice of Kali, with its less pronounced Hindi accent. Pershing called out his number immediately after Candy. It would not do any good to get ahead of himself. "Sickle Flight is with you Hammer. Lead the way."

Pershing ran through the mission again, for the sixth time since the briefing. They were to escort ten _Raptors_ to Delius II, where Task Force Intel has picked up at least one Kilrathi capital ship, a frigate, and perhaps another. Just why the _Raptors_ needed escort to destroy a pair of _Targus_ was beyond them. He supposed it was better to have and not need. Perhaps there was a fighter base on Delius II. The planet was small, rocky and had a trace atmosphere. The only strategic value it would have was its proximity to the Tamayo jump point.

His was not to question why, only to say 'yes sir' and carry out his orders. Part of him wanted to face a swarm of _Sartha_, while the more rational part of him would be happy to complete this mission without ever being fired upon. As the Hammer and Sickle Flights formed up and accelerated to cruising speed, Pershing would have four hours to dwell upon it.

**Orbital Approach**

**Delius II**

**Delius System**

Pershing's eyes narrowed as he took his gaze off his sensors and relied upon his eyes. Only a moment before, the order to drop down to combat speed was issued. It was a steep deceleration from three percent light speed down to a mere hundred kilometers per second. Fighting so close to a planet, the speed would have to drop even further, for one misstep would result in a spectacular explosion as he ploughed into the surface of Delius II. Or worse still, his fighter and another from the _Tennessee River_ happen to briefly occupy the same space at the same time.

Ahead of him, the half-sphere of Delius II steadily grew in both size and luminosity. The planet could have been any other dead world in the galaxy. It reminded him of Mars, the old Mars that is, as it existed when humanity sent its first probes there. Of course, after a couple thousand years of inhabitation, the planet looked radically different. Before the jump points were discovered, attempts were made to terraform the planet. Full scale effort was abandoned after living worlds were discovered in other systems, and to this day, the Martians had to spend every waking hour fighting nature's attempt to return the partially terraformed planet to its natural state. Delius II had the rusty sheen, but lacked the polar seas.

"Heads up, Sickle Flight!" Commander Kishna called out, her voice in his helmet as clear as if she sat right behind him. "Looks like Intel was wrong." By the way she said it, Pershing knew she was not surprised.

He checked his own sensor suite. In low orbit of the planet, passing over the terminator from night to day, he spotted the two _Targu_-class frigates. That was to be expected. After all, why send to squadrons of fighters out here if there was nothing to strike. However, it was not all his sensors detected. Between both frigates was a lone _Ralatha_, a destroyer with considerably more firepower than a pair of frigates. Its sharp angles and fearsome projections gave the destroyer a distinct knife-like figure, with the impression that it was only waiting for the word, and it would tear open its victim. The frigates had similar silhouettes, but they were pocket knives against a dagger. Given the Cats' anatomy, perhaps claw was a more apt analogy.

"Hammer Leader to all fighters," came the distinct and aristocratic tone of Tenn'Strike B's commander. "New targets have been designated. Break and attack."

Pershing broke formation only a spilt second after Candy. The two of them were assigned to cover a pair of _Raptors_ homing in on the highest _Targu_. The fighter-bombers slid into a missile run, having not only to close within a few thousand kilometers of the target, but also having to stay on target while the ECM package on their anti-ship missile fought its own electronic war against the frigate's defenses. They only need a few seconds to achieve a 'lock', but in those few seconds, the _Raptors_ were locked in a ballistic trajectory.

While they were on their run, Pershing was just as locked on that path. His mouth grew dry as nervousness and excitement battled each other for role of primary emotion. He sat in this same situation countless times before on the simulators, and most of the time he survived. _Targus_ had pulse cannons, firing pulses of plasma at sub-luminal speeds. If he was quick, he could evade a shot. The same could not be said for those charging the destroyer. Heavier warships all had grasers, light-speed weapons. The first one knew of a graser firing upon them was after they were hit.

When the first of the _Targu's_ pulse cannons opened up on the incoming fighters, all of Pershing's anxieties were forgotten. His mind focused on the mission, the enemy, and surviving. Adrenaline began to flow through his blood as Pershing was introduced to the excitement of combat. He marveled at the nerve of the _Raptor_ pilots, both guiding their fighters right down the barrel of the Kilrathi guns.

"Heads up Mailman!" Candy announced. His wing leader flew forward and to his right, some ten meters ahead. "We've got company from the surface."

Pershing glanced down at his sensors and spotted sixteen icons rapidly rising from the surface of Delius II. All were _Sartha_, light fighters that carried only a missile each, but where deadly agile. Pershing ran the facts through his mind; _Sartha_ were lightly armed and shielded. The vets told him that a well placed volley from his pulse cannons, either on top or bottom of the delta-shaped fighter, would punch through shields and armor. The trick was getting the little gnats to hold still long enough to hit them.

Like his own squadron, the _Sartha_ broke off into pairs to chase down their own targets. Four were headed Pershing's way, two for each of the _Raptors_. Those had to be the primary target, for _Scimitars_ could damage frigates, but would be of little use against a fully shielded capital ship. Despite slowing into combat speed, the relative speed between both waves of fighters was great, and the _Sartha _closed the gap in seconds. Four headed towards Pershing, his wingman and the two _Raptors_. The instant they entered range, all four _Sartha_ launched their lone FF missile.

These were simple weapons, designed to home in any target that lacked the correct electronic signal. This also forced both sides to broadcast clearly their transponder codes, to prevent friendly fire should an ally launch their own FFs. One of the _Raptors_ broke off from his missile run and turned on the light fighters. He let out a string of decoys that broadcast louder than any fighter. Both Pershing and Candy broke their own ranks and followed suit, Pershing popping six FF decoys. The Kilrathi missiles all impacted on the decoys, their fusion warheads lighting up space.

Pershing turned on the lead _Sartha_ and launched a pair of his own Friend-or-Foe missiles. The agile enemy broke formation and scattered, trailing their own decoys. Like with missiles, the _Sartha_ had a very limited number of decoys. One of the Kilrathi ships blossomed into a miniature sun as pulse fire from a _Raptor_ ripped apart both shields and armor plating. Neither of Pershing's missiles scored a hit.

With the numbers down to three-on-three, Pershing chose his target and tried to keep his cross hairs on its back. The Cat jinked and banked, foiling Pershing's every attempt. The enemy pilot was skilled, and far more veteran than the rookie Pershing. Within ten seconds, the _Sartha_ had turned the tables, diving and tucking under Pershing, and bringing the _Scimitar_ into his own sights. Alarms flared in the cockpit as the fighter gave Pershing warning that the Cat had locked on. If he had another missile, Pershing would have been toast. As it was, the Kilrathi was content to shoot him to pieces.

Pershing slammed the flight stick back, pulling the _Scimitar_ into a loop. It was the oldest trick in the book, but sometimes the obvious was overlooked. Not by this _Sartha_ pilot. His fighter, lighter and more maneuverable, turned tighter and brought fire down upon the top of Pershing's fighter. Hits registered and his top shields began to flutter. Instantly, his flight suit fully sealed itself, in the event of a breach in the cockpit. Pershing tried in vain to outmaneuver the light fighter. He climbed and dove in orbital space, pulling so tight that the ship's inertial compensator had trouble keeping up. Pershing felt like another one of him was sitting on his chest.

He hit the transmit key on the opposite rest of the cockpit. "Sickle six to five!" he called into his helmet's mike. "Candy, I could use a little help."

His cockpit window dimmed again as a second _Sartha_ exploded a kilometer off his starboard. His sensors tracked a _Scimitar_ busting through the rapidly expanding cloud of vapor and ions. "I've got your back, kid. Bank right!"

Pershing obeyed, jamming his stick full right, throwing his body around in his cockpit. He glimpsed Candy's fighter pull up for a reverse corkscrew. She dove down right on top of the _Sartha_, who has already fallen victim to his bloodlust. Candy did not waste a missile on this fighter; blasting away instead with pulse cannons. Shots of blue-hot plasma raked the light fighter's roofs, tearing through its weakest spot. The _Sartha_ came apart in a fury of unrealized energy contained inside its own fusion reactor.

"Thanks for the save," Pershing called out.

He heard Candy give a short laugh. "Couldn't lose my wingman on his first mission; it looks bad."

Pershing's own laugh was forced and full of nervousness. If it looked bad on her record, what would it look like on his own? Marcus Pershing; killed in action by a Kilrathi point-defense fighter. They might not pack a great punch, but once they get on one's tail, they stay there.

Pershing's attention returned to the Kilrathi frigate, its few pulse cannons firing. The _Raptor_ that stayed on track already pulled up, putting as much distance between himself and the impact. His wingman, two more kills on his record, followed the anti-ship missile in, keeping a respectable distance. He was back-up, in case the Cats scored a lucky shot on the incoming Orca ASM. Even if it did, the detonation of the matter/anti-matter warhead would blind their sensors, allowing the second _Raptor_ an easy kill.

In a flash of light, the issue was redundant. The missile struck the _Targu's_ shields, passing through them as if they did not even exist. Several grams of anti-matter came into contact with its counterpart at the exact instant the warhead touched the hull of the ship. The force of the impact smashed the warhead, vaporizing the anti-matter containment field. Anti-protons annihilated protons, shredding the durasteel hull of the Kilrathi warship. Ruptures within the _Targu_ spilled liquid hydrogen into the oxygen-rich atmosphere.

A second explosion rocked the ship, as large as the first. Pershing's cockpit dimmed as a newborn sun appeared over the skies of Delius II. Dagger-like fragments of the Kilrathi frigate spilled out of the fireball, the larger pieces raining down on the planet below. Smaller chunks of the ship, pea-sized bits of durasteel, titanium and other chunks of matter best not remembered, peppered his fighter, causing the shields to flare.

On boards sensors detected a second sun forming some hundred kilometers away. The other _Targu_ attempted to break orbit, pull its back from the wall and fight. Tenn'Strike B made short work of the that ship as well. Pershing ran his eyes over his sensors, searching for fresh targets.

"Sickle Leader to Sickle Flight," Kali's voice filled his helmet. "Mission accomplished, let's go home."

Pershing blinked in surprise. The mission was over? After such a long flight, the mission was over in a matter of minutes. Maybe even less. He lost track of time the moment he and Candy followed those two _Raptors_ down the chute. All this time spent in the cockpit, and only a couple of minutes of action. The maneuvering, the danger, and most exhilarating of all, living to fly another day. He knew he should not think as such, not until his _Scimitar_ was parked firmly in the landing bay of the _Tennessee River_.

"Hammer Leader to Flight; excellent work people. Three dead ships, all by the book. Time to go home," Squadron Commander of Tenn'Strike B sounded as if he had not even broken a sweat. Pershing, on the other hand, knew his forehead was drenched in sweat, and the full impact of the fight began to assert itself as the adrenaline rush wound down. He tried to play back the battle in his mind, but it was all a blur. It happened fast, too fast, as if the computers took over the fighters and it was really the machines doing the fighting. They did the fighting, and the pilots still did the dying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Clean Sweep**

**Chapter 2**

**On Patrol**

**Near Delius II**

**Delius System**

With two missions behind him, Marcus "Mailman" Pershing expected it to get easier. It was not. The same anxiety shook him, and uncertainty that he would live to see another sunrise gnawed away in his gut, turning his small intestine into a Gordian Knot. It was pointless to worry so, for he was not likely to see another sunrise up in space anytime soon. He spoke of to Candice, but her only reassurance was that being scared never ceased. She felt the same on every mission, no matter how routine.

The two _Scimitars_ flew between the orbits of Delius II and Delius III, keeping tabs on Kilrathi movement. A second strike on the base on Delius II scored him no kills, but his squadron successfully escorted the _Tennessee River's_ whole compliment of _Raptors_ to destroy the base. After they finished delivering their bombs and missiles, nothing remained by radioactive ruins upon the surface of that desolate world. The few remaining Kilrathi fighters were destroyed while trying to reach orbit.

Those first two missions were lucky, even Pershing knew that. The Kilrathi were not expecting an attack, nor knew of the existence of Task Force Thirty-Seven. Now they knew Confed was in system, and Admiral Bellemonte had all available fighters on patrol, even those of escort squadrons. At the moment, only he and Candy were out in space. Aside from the light from Delius, he felt as if he flew in a universe of eternal darkness.

"Look alive, Mailman," came Candy's voice, dripping with anticipation. "Time to stop daydreaming."

"What do you have, Candy?" he asked. He had been on plenty of patrols before entering the Delius System, but those had minimal chances of running into trouble. For all he knew, the two of them were about to fly smack into the middle of an entire Kilrathi strike wing.

He could hear a slight laugh on her end of the comm. "Relax Mailman, it isn't the kitty armada. I'm picking up a freighter going somewhere in a real hurry, accompanied by a pair of _Dralthi_."

"We're nowhere near the commerce lanes," Pershing replied. After weeks of transit and briefings, he felt he knew the shipping lanes of this system better than his own quarters. He glanced down at his own long-range sensors, seeing only a large return. His were on passive, while Candy's were on active. No point in letting the Cats know how many fighters were on patrol.

Candy pondered the situation as well. "Nowhere near those corresponding to jump points. That doesn't mean the Cats don't have their own little trade routes in-system. Their trajectory leads back to the Caliban Jump Point. They might not know about us. What do you say we pay this hundred kilotonne freighter a visit?"

Pershing knew he could not argue. Despite sounding like a question, it was clearly an order. The freighter could be carrying reenforcements or supplies, either of which could be trouble for the task force. "After you."

Pershing watched as the Kilrathi freighter grew in size. Sensors showed no windows and minimal oxygen reserves. Without nanotechnology, the Kilrathi had to carry extra air to stay alive. Judging by the lack of reserves, he and Candy agreed it was carrying cargo. "Too bad," Candy told him. "The Army would really appreciate us killing a Cat battalion in space."

The escorting fighters clearly were not briefed on the dynamic situation in the Delius System, for their first reaction to the two Terran fighters was when Candy locked on to one and fired an FF missile. That sort of slothness made Pershing appreciate the sort of drilling that Confed pounded into him and the other rookie pilots while in friendly systems; never knew when a Kilrathi raid might sneak in and pay a visit.

The _Dralthi_ evaded the missile and turned to face Candy. "Mailman, take out the freighter, I'll deal with the escorts."

Pershing gawked at his comm unit. Take out the freighter? With what? _Scimitars_ were not equipped with anti-ship missiles. The freighter was of the _Dorkir_ design. The basic ship was small, but could have literally hundreds of containers added on as needed. This one was a monster, bigger than any he had ever seen. In truth, he never seen a _Dorkir_ in person, but he clearly saw no Confed ship of this size. His sensors had the mass topping one hundred thousand tonnes. It would be a big kill.

He quickly ran everything he knew about the general design through his head. Its crew compartment was forward, and accounted for two thousand tonnes. The engines were in the back, but even as it slowed to combat speed to evade, destroying them would only send it drifting endlessly in the void. Pershing targeted the ship's reactor core, hidden behind several of the durasteel containers. He could see it, barely, but hitting it would be tricky.

Pershing powered up full sensors, toggling fire control over to his IR missile. Lining up his sensors with the reactor module took time, and further time was wasted while the missile locked. It would be a few seconds, but a few seconds that he had to keep station and could not evade attack. Fear vanished as he focused. It would not be missed, for he would have plenty of time to be scared later. If he survived.

Alarms went off in his helmet as one of the _Dralthi_ lined him up. He felt his own ship buck as shots of plasma slammed into his aft shields. Before he could react, the chime of a locked IR missile pinged, and he let loose his missile. For added measure, he sent an FF missile to trail the IR into the heart of the freighter. Once the missiles were clear, he pulled his _Scimitar_ into a sharp climb away from the ship and out of the line of fire.

The Cat followed him like a cheetah running down a gazelle. So focused was he on Pershing, that he failed to see the second Confed fighter sweep across his flank, chewing through shields and armor. Pershing tracked the fighters on his sensors momentarily, until the flash of a powerful explosion lit up space, and overwhelmed his sensors. He did not need to look over his shoulder to know he scored a hit. The fusion warhead of his two missiles detonated within the monestrous freighter's core, causing the ship to split in half as a temporary star blossomed from within.

With his sensors out, he was in the lethal position of losing all track of the action. "Candy, are you still with me?"

Her voice broke through the cackling of static. "Good kill, Mailman."

He would celebrate and revel in his first kill later, for now, he wanted to make sure he had the chance. "What about the _Dralthi?_"

"I killed the first one," Candy replied. "Think the blast might have knocked out the other one. What do you say we power up to cruising speed in case the Cat gets any crazy ideas of suicide involving crashing into one of us?"

**Pilot Lounge**

**TCS **_**Tennessee River**_

**Delius System**

Marcus Pershing sat with his back to the stars, only he knew they were not really stars. All windows within the pilot's lounge were simple viewers, transmitting real-time images from the Delius System deep into the heart of the _Tennessee River_. Windows were structural weaknesses, and like most Confed ships, the _Tenn_ kept windows to a minimal. That was not to say the ship was without any. The officer's mess had its own genuine view of the deep black. Fighter pilots were not part of the crew in the same way as those who actually make the ship function, and thus the pilots created their own recreational zone out of an empty compartment.

"Here's to you, Mailman," Candy raised a shot of rum. "If kills were based on mass instead of numbers, you'd have topped us all."

She knocked the rum back with a single gulp. She was shorter than Pershing, but not slight of build. She was well muscled, a body produced by a couple hours a day in the ship's gym. Like most female pilots, she kept her hair short, just down to the neck. Helmets and long hair did not mix so well. She was also far more outgoing and relaxed than Pershing, not only because he was still one of the replacements.

Pershing doctored his rum. It was alright, but not something he would drink every day. In fact, that was pretty much ship policy. Alcohol on starships was a tightly controlled commodity, and the pilot's lounge had only so much. It was broke out to celebrate first kills, making ace, and used in heavy doses to numb the pain of losing a pilot. The lounge was mostly empty at the moment, being late in the night. Not even the bartender, a pilot from one of the _Hornet_ squadrons who serves the roll part time, was to be seen.

"I don't see the big deal," Pershing replied to her toast. "You're the one who handled the fighters; all I did was kill a big dumb object."

Candy smiled brightly. "Ah, but not even Kali has killed a ship that big." It was true, escort pilots held the fighters off and let the heavy-hitters come in with anti-ship missiles. "You're kill was enough to put the _Raptor_ pilots to shame." She looked around the empty lounge. "Too bad you couldn't have waited a few hours to make the kill; the rest of the squad could have been here."

Pershing shrugged. "The Kilrathi aren't too keen on keeping our schedules."

"Uh huh," Candy replied suspiciously. "I think you just wanted to avoid the crowd."

"Tradition is the drink is immediately after the sortie, as you well know Candice," Pershing reminded her.

Candy laughed. "Don't quote to rules to me, Marcus," she added a slightly accentuation to his name. Pilots seldom called each other anything other than their callsigns on board the _Tenn_. When they did, it was a formal situation, and he would be calling her Lieutenant Elliot, and saluting in the meanwhile.

Pershing smirked at her. He could not recall the last time she called him by his given name. To the rest of Tenn'Court A, he was simply Mailman. "If it makes you happy, I'll make sure I make ace during happy hour."


	3. Chapter 3

**Clean Sweep**

**Chapter 3**

**One Light-Minute ahead of the Task Force**

**Delius System**

Marcus Pershing piloted his _Scimitar_ in yet another routine patrol. Despite the terror of combat and possibility of a quick and sudden death, Pershing would much rather be with the fighters from _Libertè _and _Victory_ in their attack on Delius III. They were not bombing the planet, and the human colonists held down by the Cats, but rather a Kilrathi fighter garrison on some near-orbit asteroid. Intel reported the base only held two squadrons of fighters. Sixteen _Dralthi_ or _Sartha_ were not enough to warrant a full-scale attack. That would come later.

No doubt the whole point of this raid into occupied space was to destroy Delius Station, where the Cats have their system HQ. Pershing would get his fair share of terror when it came time to escort the bombers on a bombing run against a starbase. It was a demoralizing thought, but at least he did not have to fly in a straight line right down the chute like those _Raptor_ pilots. War vids always showed that bomber pilots required nerves of steel, but they did not know the half of it.

Instead, the lavished attention upon fighter jockeys. All the glamour and glitz of the vids was not what convinced Pershing to sign on; having his home overran by the Cats played a minor role in that decision. He and his family fled Port Hadland just ahead of the Cats. Too many of his former neighbors were not as lucky. Pershing did not spend too much time dwelling on what became of them. A number of _Tenn's_ crew had families trapped behind enemy lines, so he was not alone there.

He was, however, alone in that regard in Tenn'Court A. Aside from the Powell brothers, every pilot in his squad hailed from the homeworld. Kali was from the capital, New Delhi. Candy was from some town called Astoria in North America. Even the brothers were not that far away from Earth, both born on Luyten I. The junior of the brothers, Monkey, served as Pershing's wingman. He had no idea how Monkey was assigned to the same ship as his brother. Up until Kali decided to shuffle flight rotations, so that the rookies did not get to set flying wing on one pilot, Monkey flew on his brother, Bonzo's wing.

Pershing missed flying on Candy's wing, who was currently flying with Ghost, another of the 'old hands'. After training with her all the way out to Delius, he could predict her moves even before she planned them. In that respect, he admitted Kali had a point. Candy would not always be in the cockpit, and Pershing had to learn to play with others. Bonzo lacked her charm, but made up with strangeness. Like his brother, he earned the call sign by his sheer strangeness. Sometimes, Pershing thought the man would be more at home in the trees than a carrier.

Pershing's radio beeped as it received a narrow-band laser from Monkey. "Another exciting patrol, eh Mailman?" he asked in his thick Luyten Deutsche accent, far thicker than Bonzo's, who has been in space far longer.

Pershing could not deny the boredom. "Just stay awake, Monkey. Can't have you sleep through any skirmish." Dogfights were a quick affair, so quick that Pershing worried that should he blink, he might miss it.

Monkey snorted over the radio. "What, and let you have all the kills!" They were tied on the kill rally. Monkey scored his kill early in the campaign, during the fighting around Delius II. He use to give Pershing grief about his own blank slate, at least up until he killed a freighter that outmassed a _Sartha_ by hundreds of times. Of the rookies, Pershing had a most definite lead in terms of tonnage. With the competitive nature of fighter pilots, it would only be a matter of time before one of them tried to take down a corvette.

Or a frigate.

"I think making it home alive counts for more than kills," Pershing told him. He knew he should not talk so much while on patrol, but so close to each other, it was next to impossible for anyone to intercept the communication laser. A ship would have to pass between the two of them, and said ship would be visible long before then.

"Speak for yourself, cap ship killer," Monkey shot back. It was not a completely accurate declaration, for freighters were hardly capital ships. They just carried cargo, and no doubt the Kilrathi crew resented the assignment even more than humans. Violence was in their blood even more so than in humanity. To a Kilrathi warrior, such labor was females' work.

Monkey said not a word more after that, and the two passed the patrol in silence. While in flight school, Pershing thought flying a state-of-the-art fighter would be more exciting. He never imagined how much waiting it involved. Even on patrol. Perhaps patrol was not the best word to describe the mission, but it was the one Kali used. In truth, all he and Monkey were doing was sitting out ahead of the task force at the ten o'clock position as advance warning.

Should Kilrathi fighters appear, they were expected to sound the alarm and try to deal with them. If Kilrathi warships showed up, they were expected to sound the alarm, and try to slow them down. If a Kilrathi fleet appeared– Pershing asked Candy about that once. Her response was a shrug followed by 'sound the alarm and then die'. Perhaps not even that much; no doubt the Cats would have jammed any transmission.

He wondered just why pilots were even needed for this sort of scouting. Probes could see just as well, and never grew bored. True, probes could not fight worth beans, but they would sound the alarm Pershing wondered just how many pilots flying out ahead of their ships ever set their sensors to an alarm clock and then proceeded to sleep off the patrol. He would not want to try it. As he already told Monkey, it was best not to sleep through a fight.

Only a few minutes before their boring four hour tour came to an end, Pershing's radio flared to life. It was not Monkey this time, he could tell by the beeping. It was an omni-direction radio broadcast. His partly melted brain came back to life. There was only one reason he could think of for such a general transmission; somebody stumbled upon the Cats.

From what he could tell, the twelve o'clock patrol stumbled across a half-squadron of Kilrathi out on patrol. That was not good. Not only where they outnumbered two-to-one, but one of the Cats was bound to be smart enough to ask, 'what are a pair of Terran fighters doing out in the middle of nowhere?'.

Monkey, if was asleep he certainly was not now, asked the Obvious question. "Do we help them?"

Pershing had no clear answer. Who was out on patrol there? Two more rookies; Express and Loki. He did not know either pilot that well, save they were from Earth. When he stopped to think about it, Pershing did not know anybody 'that well', save Candy, and he only knew her because he spent all that transit time training on her wing.

"We'll have to call back to the hanger," Pershing said, and could already picture Monkey scowling. He did not like it either, not least because the reply would take two minutes to reach them. The warning only took seconds. Pershing cursed physics, the bane of all pilots. At the time he sent his request, the Task Force would not even have known the twelve o'clock patrol discovered anything. They could fly between the stars in a blink of an eye, but it still took forever to communicate.

To his surprise, the reply took less than two minutes, though only be a few seconds. "Epsilon Patrol, your relief–" Smitty paused for a long moment. He must sent out his first communique before Pershing's request arrived. He waited longer while kicking the message upstairs. Some days, it felt like the Chain of Command was forged from red tape. Today would not be one of those days. "Epsilon Patrol, you are ordered to assist Alpha Patrol. You relief is on its way, and your sudden departure would not create an appreciable gap in our detection."

As far as Pershing was concerned, there was no such thing as an appreciable gap. Still, any Cats trying to slip past them would run right into the replacements from Tenn'Court B. "Copy that, we're on our way," he said, knowing that they would quite literally be on their way by the time any response caught up to them. He switched his comm laser back to his wingman. "Alright Monkey, looks like we'll be seeing some action today after all."

Pershing throttled his fighter up to cruising speed before Monkey could have the last word.

**Flight Deck**

**TCS **_**Tennessee River**_

**Delius System**

Pershing climbed out of his cockpit, shaking from exhaustion as the adrenalin rush finally ebbed. Funny, it never happened while in his fighter. Each time after a hair-rasing mission, Pershing found himself ready to collapse upon the deck. He knew it would never happen in the middle of a firefight, but there was still a half-hour trip back to the carrier. Surely he could feel the effect then. Not a chance. His body always waited until it had something beneath his feet before it wanted to collapse.

This time was no exception. He and Monkey arrived at twelve o'clock in time to save the patrol. Express's fighter was still in decent shape. He watched it come in for a smooth landing. He watched it pass through the atmospheric curtain with ease. A good thing too. Though he was still in his flight suit, sealed against vacuum, the numerous techs were not. Oh, they wore environmental suits, but seldom had them sealed. A few even worked barehanded, their gloves hanging from a belt. The suits techs wore would protect them, provided they remained on the flight deck. Should they get sucked out into space– Pershing was not confident of their surviving. If nothing else, they would likely smack into a large piece of equipment on deck.

Upon touching down, Express's fighter found itself quickly towed to its alcove. Techs might not be as protected as they should, but they knew their stuff. From touchdown to parking, they took less than twenty seconds. Express popped the top of her fighter and began to climb out. Pershing could tell she was far shakier than himself. Of course, he was part of the cavalry, not one of the besieged.

The fight was short, and almost ended with the sudden arrival of Pershing and Monkey. Pershing damaged two of the Cats, but made no kills. Monkey finished off the second, claiming another kill for himself. Claiming being the operative word. The official tallies would mark it as a half-kill for each, but that would not stop Monkey from bragging about it. After that, the Kilrathi decided it better to live to kill another day.

Kilrathi were odd in that respect. If they thought they could win, they would fight until they won. If not, they would retreat. Though they fled today, they would always be back tomorrow. Yet, when trapped, they would fight to the death. Otherwise, they would abandon the fight. The odd part came in that the Cats saw a great disgrace in surrendering, yet none in running away. Rumor has it that the Cats did not even have a word for surrender.

Loki's was the last to land. His fighter was the most damaged, and though he might need assistance the most, he was put at the bottom of the line. It made sense, in a cold, calculating way. If he crashed, then the flight deck would be out of action, stranding the other three in space until the debris was cleared. The Swede had been serious shot to pieces before the calvary could arrive. Just why the fighter did not explode, was beyond him. One of its fuel tanks was blown wide open, and part of a wing missing.

He should have come along side _Tenn_ and ejected. That way there would be no risk to the flight deck, and the fighter could still be recovered. Loki refused vehemently. It was foolishness; if the fight disemboweled a fuel tank, what did it do to his guidance system? Totally screw it up as Pershing discovered.

Loki came in high. Too high. The top of his fighter clipped the ceiling as he passed through the curtain. The _Scimitar_ bounced off the ceiling and slammed down, hard, into the flight deck. Fuel lines and oxygen tanks cracked open, spilling out on to the flight deck. Sparks from electrical shorts were quick to ignite. His fighter did not simply stay put. No, that would have made matters simple. It retained enough momentum to carry itself forward, spreading fire as it moved. It stopped short of an ordinance trailer, to which Pershing sighed in relief. If those went up– even disarmed, their fuel was enough to blow a hole in the flight deck.

Maddening loud alarms ripped through the flight deck faster than the flames. Instead of running towards the fighter, and trying to save the pilot, the entire deck crew bolted in the opposite direction. Pershing was slower on the pick up, for his specialty was not flight deck operations. The alarm roaring was not one of help, but one of 'get off the flight deck!'. The racket of the emergency decompression alarm chilled him.

"Come on Mailman," Monkey said over his comm, rushing past Pershing. "In a few seconds, this will not be the place to be."

Pershing had to agree. He was about to run for the safety of the ship's bulkheads when he noticed one of people actually was running towards the burning fighter. It did not take a quantum theorist to figure out she was not one of the techs. "Express!" Pershing shouted, though it did little good with his faceplate down.

Instead, he ran after her, determined to overtake the pilot. Monkey stopped and cursed. "Mailman! You're going to be the death of me!" He was a strange fellow, no doubt, but a loyal one as well. He was not about to abandon a wingman, not even after the mission.

Both pilots, despite their fatigue, overtook Express before she came across the burning fighter. She was smaller than either of them, though not in spirit. Pershing and Monkey grabbed her by shoulders and waist, and Express fought to wiggle free. "Have to save Loki!"

"We can't," Pershing told her, managing to drag her back a step. "Come on, Express. The curtain is about to raise." Fire in space was a serious matter. The only thing more serious were explosions, which fire tended to lead towards. In event of a catastrophic fire– Loki's fighter qualified– the flight deck was to be sealed and atmospheric curtain raised, venting all the flammable oxygen into space. If any of the crew were trapped– too bad. Safety of the ship as a whole superseded any of the crew, the Captain included.

"Over there!" Monkey freed one hand to point at a hatch in the floor. By freeing a hand, Express nearly freed herself from their grip.

"I've got her," Pershing said, clamping his arms around her in an embrace a bear might envy. Express did not envy it. She fought him, kicking and swinging the whole way.

Monkey moved quicker than humanly possible to reach the emergency shelter. Since the ship was more important than an crew member, designers placed emergency shelters upon the flight deck, just in case crew could not exit the flight deck before the bulkheads sealed it shut. Dozens of these shelters littered the flight deck, their surfaces so perfectly blended into the deck that fighters could role over them without even noticing.

Monkey hit the controls, sliding the door open. Pershing burned every calory still in his body hauling Express towards the shelter. He did not waste time with niceties. Instead, he threw her into the shelter and jumped in on top of her. Monkey was less than a second behind Pershing, sealing the shelter quite literally on his heels. Any slower, and his feet would have been left on the flight deck. Any slower, they might all be out in space.

No more than two seconds after the shelter sealed itself, the whole ship shuddered as the atmospheric curtain abruptly rose and the entire flight deck experienced the joys of explosive decompression. Any unprotected crewmen out there was dead before he knew it. Protected crewmen were usually dead slower, beaten to death by equipment not heavy enough to stay on the deck.

"That was too close," Monkey said, his words coming between deep breaths. "Let's not do this again."

Pershing had to agree. His own breath was ragged, and his pulse off the charts. Nothing like a close brush with death to make a man feel alive. Express said nothing. Instead, she just sat there, staring ahead blankly. Pershing could not see through the tint of her visor, but could easily picture the expression upon her face. She just lost a wingman.

Without atmosphere, the fire did not survive long. Once the deck was open to space, techs cycled through air locks in their E-suits to check out the crashed fighter, and dispose of hazardous material. Only after the Captain Sinwall was satisfied his ship was safe was the deck repressurized. Afterwards, it was another matter of waiting. Pershing did not care for it, but supposed he best get use to it. He would be spending the rest of his naval career waiting.

When the emergency hatch slid open, for it could only be opened from outside– a stupid design, but Pershing suppose it prevented unprotected crew from accidently killing themselves– he was not surprised to see his former wingman looking down at him. "Hey Candice, how you doing?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

She wore no helmet, so the expression on her face was as plain as day. She was both relieved and furious. "Lieutenant Pershing, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Any more proof of her fury was in her addressing him by rank.

Pershing climbed out of the cramp confines of the shelter. Who ever designed it did not take flight suits into the equation. After stretching once, he took in the view around him. The flight deck was a total mess, equipment littering every corner. Explosive decompression sure packed a powerful punch. "What a mess," he said.

"Another understatement for the books," Monkey said, following him out of the shelter. Express was slower to follow. Shock must have kicked in while cooped up below deck.

Candy shook her head. "Fool." She was not talking about Monkey. "That fool! He should have ejected along side us, but no! He had to prove himself, and his pride nearly cost us the ship!" She turned on Pershing with the seriousness only a superior officer could wield. "Don't you ever do something this stupid, you hear me? You pull up along side the _Tenn_ and punch out."

Pershing nodded. "Sure thing, Candy."

Candy visible relaxed. "I'm glad to see you're alright." she said, placing her hands upon his shoulders.

"Hey, what about me?" Monkey asked.

Candy gave him a scornful glance. "I suppose you're vital to the war effort too."

"What of Loki?" Express lifted her faceplate, betraying her pale face. Her voice was weak and still shaken.

Candy looked at her as if she were as big a fool as Loki for even asking. "Dead. His fighter's a total loss. The techs are salvaging it right now." A couple dozen tech swarmed over the broken _Scimitar_ like ants on a carcass. Her expression softened again. "Come on. Kali's waiting to debrief you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Clean Sweep**

**Chapter 4**

**Pilot's Lounge**

**TCS **_**Tennessee River**_

**Delius System**

"I told you she'd be here," Candy said as she and Pershing passed into _Tennessee River's _flight lounge. Normally, her voice would hold so much more triumph for being correct, but not in the case of a depressed pilot.

Pershing could see that Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Pearl "Express" Shasta was one depressed pilot. If ship regulations permitted it, and Supply Officers stocked it, Express might have foregone the bottle of rum in favor of a whole barrel. Alcohol was a universal panacea for what ailed you. Candy was not as worried as Pershing. She was worried, but experience taught her that booze helped numb the pain of loss. She was at Second Enyo, and a lot of good pilots died in that battle. She lost so many friends and comrades in the past couple of years, that one more did not even phase her.

This was not the same with Pershing. He knew he should feel something more at the loss of Loki, but he did not. True, Loki was a fellow pilot, and Pershing did not like to lose any comrade. However, Loki was more an acquaintance than a friend. Candy was the only real friend he had in the squad. He confided in her his confused feelings. Instead of loss, he was more relieved that somebody else was killed. That line of thought brought carried great guilt.

Candy dismissed the idea outright. She told him to get use to it, and that was nothing to feel guilty about. Survivors' Guilt, as the psychs called it, claimed almost as many pilots as the Cats. There was nothing he could do about it. Life and death in the cockpit were nothing but dumb luck. Even the best of pilots could be killed should he be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or make the wrong move. After setting him straight, Candy decided they should go find Express, and try to correct her flight plan.

Express was quiet and withdrawn at the memorial service. All the rookie pilots were on some level or another. The veterans took it in stride, just another price to pay to the Reaper. Kali gave her speech, which Pershing found her to be depressingly adept. How many times had she spoken her words at the loss of a pilot? The fact that _Tenn_ required five replacement pilots for Tenn'Court A alone, spoke volumes. He heard most of the missing pilots were transferred to form the nucleus of flight wings on the new carriers coming on line.

She was not the only pilot relaxing in the lounge, but by far the loneliest. More than a few of the pilots greeted Candy, with Ghost trying to get her into a card game, one he was in the process of winning. Ghost was one of the older pilots, closing in on thirty years. That made the blonde giant, far more a Viking than the deceased Loki, ancient by wartime standards. Only the squadron's second-in-command, Quan "Snake Eyes" Mihn, was older. He even had a couple of years on Kali. This was not proof of displeasure of the fleet's brass, but rather a late enlistment date. Ghost was twenty-five when he entered flight school.

Candy decided her time could be better spent wasting her salary, and brushed off Ghost. Standing above Express, she asked, "Is this seat taken?"

Express looked up, her brown eyes puffy. "Help yourself, ma'am."

Candy did just that. Pershing took the seat opposite of Express from Candy. Express wore her brown hair regulation length, not going past her neck. She had a pretty face, one of those girl-next-door about which the male personnel of _Tenn_ often spoke. Her frame was smaller, more slighter that Candy. As far as Pershing knew, none made any move on her. Of course, Pershing did not know nearly as far as he would like.

"How you holding up?" Candy asked. Pershing was content to let her do the talking. He was never any good with words. That, and Candy had more experience in dealing with death.

"I'll live," Express said, smiling faintly at her own gallows humor. After the memorial service, Express headed for the lounge, determined to drown her sorrows. "I'm not sure how. I'll have to do some thinking about that."

Candy frowned. "Looks more like you're doing some drinking about it." Pershing rubbed his brow at her words. Candy sure had a gift to say the right thing at the wrong time. Express did not object to her scrutiny. Instead, she took another sip of her drink. Pershing could not tell what it was, a mix of some sorts. At least it did not smell like that God-awful burnt wood stuff that Ghost drank.

"You've lost wingmen, haven't you?" she asked Candy.

Candy would not admit or deny it. Instead, she said, "I've lost squad mates and comrades, yes."

Express did not seem to notice the non-answer. "How do you deal with it?" She pretty much ignored Pershing, which was not surprising. He was use to being ignored. He had spent a good portion of his life on Port Hadland being ignored by those around him. Fitting in was never a strong suit for him. This had nothing– or at least not much to do with the current situation. Pershing never lost a wingman, and only one squad mate. Candy knew far more about the loss of war than either of the rookies.

"Getting totally drunk was a usual start," Candy said with a wry smile. "That's not the same as drinking yourself silly. We usually all get drunk together, and move on the next morning. Drinking alone is not a good sign."

"Is that all?" Express asked, not finding much an answer in Candy's words.

Candy shrugged. "Not much you can do. It's all just luck. He was shot up and you weren't. It's not your fault he's dead, and it will do nobody any good blaming yourself."

Express shook her head. "If I could have gotten him out of his fighter–"

Candy slapped her palm down on the table, loud enough to disrupt other conversations in the lounge. Disrupt them only for a moment. "That's nonsense! You had nothing to do with his crash. Loki came in too high. I don't know if his controls were malfunctioning or if he just misjudged. We won't know until the techs comb every millimeter of the flight recorder." Candy paused and shook her own head. She still thought him a fool for not ditching along side the carrier.

"Stupid war," she growled, looking at the stars upon the smart wall. All the other pilots who heard her agreed, with varying strengths to their oaths.

Pershing felt useless here. He never liked to feel useless. He might not be any good with words, but he had to do something. "It could have been just as easily me and Monkey who were jumped. I could have flown back shot to pieces."

Express considered his words. "What would you have done?"

It was a good question, and one he did not have an answer. At least a completely honest one. He saw the look in Candy's eyes. "Come along side the _Tenn_ and ejected. I tried a stunt like Loki and Candy would have killed me. Even if I was already dead."

"Especially if you were dead!" Candy shot back. If anybody could manage that feat, it would be Candy. Pershing had no doubt in his mind.

"You two sure get along well," Express noted with a wan smile.

Pershing shrugged as to say it were nothing, at the same instant Candy shrugged. That sent a snort of laughter through Express. A positive sign, though a short-lived one. "I wish I got on as well with my wingman." Like all other rookies, Express was first teamed up with a veteran pilot. In her case it was the dour Snake-Eyes. "I wonder if he'll even want to fly with me anymore."

Candy rolled her eyes. She heard this kind of self-pity before. She might even have engaged in it, though she would be the last to admit it. "Feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to cut it."

Pershing cut in before she could launch into an in-depth lecture. "I'll fly with you." The look on Candy's face said it all. Pershing just broke an ancient rule of the armed forces; never volunteer.

"You're a brave man," Express said with a bit of a surprise. She was totally convinced the pilots would avoid her like some new pathogen.

"Think about it," Pershing said, as much to placate Candy as Express. "Mailman and Express, with that sort of combination, what could possibly go wrong?"

**Beta Patrol**

**Delius System**

It was not until his third patrol with Express did something finally go wrong. Eight somethings at that. Neither pilot was pleased to see a full squadron of Kilrathi fighters headed their way. "The Cats are out in force," he said, beaming his words over to Express's fighter. They were out in too much force. This was no simple patrol. It looked more like they were flying point. Not only that, the Kilrathi were also headed in the general direction of the Task Force.

To see so many fighters was hardly a surprise. T.F. 37's destination was Delius Station after all, and the Kilrathi were not about to leave their big starbase of the system without eyes. The station orbited the gas giant Delius V. Pershing could make out the planet some light-minutes ahead. They were still sufficiently distant that it was a bright light and not a discernable orb.

"Eight fighters is hardly a force," Express told him. Her mood had warmed since Loki's death. She had yet to put it completely behind her, but at least she no longer blamed herself. She was also correct. Eight fighters against a carrier task force would not be much of a fight. Pershing saw the first glitters of something large on his sensor readout.

"There's more," he said gravely as he realized the true dimensions of the incoming object. It had to be a cruiser, at the very least. He would have to wait until it grew closer to discern any smaller objects accompanying it. He was about to point out such a discovery warranted breaking radio silence, especially since the enemy was headed in their general direction, when his sensors began to fluctuate.

"We're being jammed," Express sounded the alarm a split second before Pershing fully comprehended the situation. The jamming was so powerful, it even interfered with the laser link between fighters. It was not the standard EM jamming; lasers were strong enough to slice through that.

Pershing grumbled at his readouts. Matters could never be simple, could they? All he had to do was sound the alarm and the Task Force would know what was ahead. Instead of pushing a button, he would now have to get out of jamming range for even a proper sensor reading. Pershing quickly reviewed sensor logs, trying to spot any immediate differences in the oncoming fighter. Eight _Dralthi_, a fighter that looked the cross between a pancake and throwing star. The design might have been laughable, if not for the razor-sharp edges the Kilrathi favored in design.

One of them must have a jamming device. He hoped only one of them did. "Express, head back to base and start transmitting as loud as possible once you've cleared the jamming. I'll try to keep them busy."

Her response was immediate. "Absolutely not! I'm not about to lose another wingman."

Pershing found her sense of honor to be most inappropriate at the moment. "If we both die, then the Task Force won't know about the Cats until they're close enough to return a signal."

Express's guilt tromped Pershing's sound logic. "Forget it, Mailman. We'll make it out of here together or not at all."

"Now you're just being stubborn," Pershing snapped.

"No, I'm not," Express said with exaggerated patience. "How many of those fighters can be jamming us? I'm betting one. We just have to knock it out–"

"Is that all?" Pershing could not believe they were arguing over the issue.

"Can we talk about this later? The Cats aren't going to wait for us to resolve our differences." That was an undeniable truth. The Kilrathi were not waiting for an answer.

All eight of the _Dralthi_ dropped to combat speed and dove in once it was clear the _Scimitars_ were not going to run. Even if they did turn around and dart back to the _Tenn_, the Cats would only accelerate, keeping them in jamming range. Besides, cruising speed made maneuvering difficult, and energy weapons traveled far faster than 3 PSL.

Pershing and Express stuck close together, offering a far harder target than separate. The Cats were predators, and like lions, they would pick off their victims one-by-one if they scattered. They also had the habit of attacking the weakest target first. Pershing could not even fake technical difficulties, for not all eight will jump him.

Pershing and Express shot straight into the Kilrathi formation, opening up on the Cats with pulse cannons. Pershing fired off all three of his FF missiles as did Express. If they were extremely lucky, it would knock out the jammer. If. If they were lucky to begin with, the Cats would not have brought along a jammer. At the moment, Pershing hoped to survive this fly-by. The Kilrathi broke formation, attempting to evade the missiles. Two of the Cats had sense enough to fire their own FF missiles.

Pershing yanked back on his controls, bringing his fighter into a steep dive. Express stuck to his wing. "Break right and deploy decoys!" Pershing ordered as he through his fighter into a tight left turn, stringing out half a dozen loud transponders. All the Cat missiles homed in and detonated against the decoys, lighting up the space behind him. Other miniature suns flared into life as fusion warheads detonated against Kilrathi decoys. One blast outshone the rest as a missile found its target. Pershing briefly wondered if he or Express killed that fighter, only to decide it was something the flight recorders could straighten out later.

To his dismay, the Cat killed did not carry the jammer. He quickly surveyed what little information his sensors could provide as Express rejoined his wing. The Cats were scattered for the moment, offering the perfect chance to escape. Or at least it would have been, if not three of the Cats were sharp on the ball. Were one of them carrying the jammer? Pershing considered as he toggled his firing controls over to the two IR missiles on his wings. Image Recognition was a lot harder to shake than Friend-or-Foe.

No, he decided neither of them could carry the jammer. A Terran squadron would have the jammer with the most experienced pilot, but the Cats did not think that way. Their most experienced pilots would be the ones on the front line. The junior most pilot would be stuck with the responsibility, since the Cats would consider him more a liability than an asset. Pershing tracked the fighters, checking for the two keeping their distance.

"Express, you spot that fighter in the middle of this chaos?" Pershing asked her as he jinked to avoid incoming pulse fire. Plasma did not quite travel light-speed, but it was still plenty fast to kill anybody not paying attention. A few shots skimmed his dorsal shielding.

"I see two of them," she replied, not really taking in the puzzle. Her mind focused more on staying alive.

"They aren't doing anything," he told her. "They have to be the jammers. I'm going to take them out, and I'll need you to cover me." No point in telling her to charge in while he tangoed with the fighter surrounding them. She refused to abandon him, fine. She would just have to settle for protecting him.

"Lead the way," she said, falling back to cover his attack.

Pershing locked on to both fighters, with one IR missile each. Even as he rapidly approached, he could not tell the difference between the two. He could not, but the AI within the missiles would notice the tiniest change. It was a reason why they could not be preprogrammed with enemy ships in advance. All a Kilrathi would have to do is place a boom on the end of a wing to fool the software. Instead, he had to stay on his target for over a second. It was not as long as an ASM run, but still long enough for a Cat to come up from behind and kill him.

Were the ships really different? He was starting to have a split second's worth of doubt. If he was wrong, he might kill both fighters but would be out of missiles. It was only luck that he and Express were not killed in the first pass, and dumb luck had a way of running out. Pershing forced himself to look on the bright side. He might be dead, but at least he would have more kills than Monkey.

The instant the lock chimed, he stabbed down on the fire button. Both missiles leapt from his wings and dove in towards the _Dralthi_. One of the Cat fighters fought hard to evade the missile. Even if he managed, IR missiles retained their target data and would strive to kill until they ran out of fuel. The other pilot reacted slower, and was not as lucky in evading instant death. He must have been a rookie pilot, not that different from Pershing.

Not that different, except now one was more alive than the other. The missile struck the fighter from above, nearly on top of the cockpit. Even if the Cats had ejection seats, he would not have cleared the fusion reaction fast enough to prevent vaporization. As soon as light from explosion reached him, the EM waves of the jammer ended. Pershing guessed correctly, the pilot was a rookie and had the jamming device. He did not know if the Cats carried a spare.

He was not about to wait and see. After he checked his sensor and confirmed the incoming ships, Pershing switched his transmitter to omni-directional, not wanting to risk a comm laser missing its target. "Beta Patrol to _Tennessee River_, we have incoming Kilrathi ships, a cruiser task force at the minimum—"


	5. Chapter 5

**Clean Sweep**

**Chapter 5**

**Pilot's Lounge**

**TCS **_**Tennessee River**_

**Delius Station**

Every one of _Tenn's_ available pilots crammed into the lounge, celebrating their most recent victory. All of Tenn'Court A's nine pilots crowded a single table, all in the most joyous mood. For half the pilots, it was the single greatest victory they ever witnessed. As far as Pershing was concerned, any victory he could walk– or fly– away from was a great victory. Where more than a few pilots lived and died in the space of thirty seconds, he and Express managed to elude destruction for a half-hour, long enough for help to arrive.

It was not their own squadron that saved them. No, Tenn'Court A was too busy forming on Tenn'Strike B's wing. Instead, the hot shot _Rapier_ pilots cleared out that _Dralthi_ squadron with ease. The remaining ones at least. Despite their success, the two _Scimitar_ pilots caught all sort of flak from the space-superiority fighters on how they expended all their missiles. If anything, they should have killed all the Cats and retained a missile each. Despite that, the _Rapier's_ squadron commander commended them on staying alive that long.

The two of them rejoined their squadron as it approached. Its arrival took longer than expected, with half the pilots out on patrol. By the time they reached the enemy task force, a cruiser and four destroyers, _Rapiers_ pretty much cleared the space around them. Their victory was far from free; several _Rapiers_ were destroyed in the process, though only one from _Tenn_. These losses did not diminish the victory, for the Cats lost all five of their capital ships in the end.

After returning to the carrier, Pershing marched to his quarters and collapsed, sleeping twelve hours straight. He was amazed exhaustion did not overtake him in the cockpit. Sleeping on the fly was never a good idea, but at least after the battle, his fighter could have flown itself back. Or, it could have, had it not been so badly damaged. Both he and Express did not survive their engagement without some damage. Returning to the squadron for escort duty only added to it. Pulse cannons from one of the destroyers caused some damage to his guidance systems. He was lucky; the same destroyer ripped apart the frigate _Wolverine_. Fortunately– fortune was relative after all– the frigate was destroyed after it finished its attack run and unloaded eight anti-ship missiles into the _Ralari's_ path. The Cats shot down most of the missiles, but most was not enough to save them.

Both pilots learned their lesson from Loki's death. With his navigation systems less than one hundred percent, he parked his fighter along side the carrier and climbed out. He did not care much for weightlessness, and fought to keep his lunch down where it belonged. The space drives that propelled all Confed ships generated a field within the ship that acted similar to gravity. Once his fighter was shut down, his stomach tried its best to climb away.

The carrier had to slow to combat speed to retrieve the fighters, and hauling in free-floating material. Pershing would not have wanted to try any of this at cruising speed, even if he might get a kick out of 'flying' a noticeable fraction of the speed of light. Express's fighter had its own share of damage, including an engine pod that began to fluctuate towards the end. True to her form throughout the mission, she pulled up on Pershing's wing and disembarked. Since the two did not technically eject, and since their fighters were recovered, they were spared the standard speech about losing an expensive fighter.

While the pilots celebrated, the techs were busy putting the two fighters back in working order. _Tennessee River_ had spare fighters packed away in storage. Fighters might cost more than pilots, but were far easier to replace than skilled fliers. Pershing did not worry too much about his fighter not being ready for the big strike. Techs were exceedingly proficient at patching of wounds, far more so than medics.

Kali, as squadron commander, naturally presided over the table. "To imminent victory," she said, raising a shot of some brew native to India. Her squad echoed her sentiments. "If Task Force intelligence is as intelligent as it likes to think, Delius Station should be defenseless."

The dour Snake Eyes corrected her. "Void of any Cap Ships at least. Something as large as a starbase should have at least a whole wing of fighters to protect it. Not to mention the garrison on Delius V's largest moon."

Kali scowled reproachfully at her second-in-command. "Quan, the point of a celebration is not to dwell on the minor issues."

"I'll drink to that," Ghost said, raising his own refilled shot and doing just that. "Sixty-four fighters, that's nothing to worry about."

Kali made a disgusting face, not so much at what he said, as to what he drank. "How can you stomach something that tastes like burnt wood?"

"Not to mention is strong enough to strip paint," Snake Eyes added, his expression not changing.

"I dared him to drink a can of paint once," Bonzo said, proving to be as obnoxious as his younger brother. "He needs it to clean himself out." Bonzo, though he and Monkey acted alike, did not resemble each other very well. Pershing would not even have guessed them cousins, if he did not already know they were brothers. Switched at birth perhaps?

Ghost glared at Bonzo before speaking. "It cures what ails me. Not to mention is good for amnesia."

Kali raised a brow in curiosity, though Pershing suspected she heard it all before. "How so?"

Ghost gave her, and the rest of his squad mates, a grim smile. "There's a lot about this war I want to forget."

Nobody had an immediate comeback. Nobody except Snake Eyes. "You think you've seen horrors, perhaps you should transfer to the Army. My cousin has quite a few stories that will give you nightmares."

"Or the Marines," Monkey added. As a rookie– and he would still be considered one until Clean Sweep was completed– his word was not as readily accepted by the veteran pilots.

It was accepted by Bonzo. "My brother's right. They're the first ones who get to see all the cute things the Cats do to planets and their inhabitants."

"Not counting the civilians," Candy added. All eyes shifted towards Pershing. Yes, his world was still on the wrong side of the front line. His parents escaped the planet, and Pershing experienced the thrill of living as a refugee before signing up. He wondered if _Tenn_ would be involved in liberating Port Hedland. Then he wondered if he wanted to be there, to see first hand what has become of his home. The Kilrathi were not gentled with conquered worlds, though they apparently have done little with Delius III.

"Nobody ever counts the civilians," Pershing's tone carried as much weight as his fighter. "The Cats weren't too choosy about what they bombed when they came. I'd be surprised if any of the arcologies on Hurricane still stand." Those were some impressive buildings, towering a kilometer out of the ocean.

Kali pounded her palm against the table. "Celebration, pilots, celebration. No more talk about civilians under the Cats' claws." Her gaze turned to a slight glare. "The best thing we can do for them, Mailman, is to destroy the Kilrathi Navy. We do our jobs, and one day they'll all be free."

After that, Pershing lost any desire to celebrate. He simply looked down into his glass of rum and wondered if the fermented sugar could erase memories as well as burnt wood.

**Flight Deck**

**TCS **_**Tennessee River**_

**Approaching Delius V**

Though the techs were methodical in detail, in fact he suspected _Tenn's_ chief technician's face would be seen in the dictionary under the entry for methodical, it was still his hide on the line every time he launched. Pershing insisted on going over his rebuild _Scimitar_ personally. The Chief was not offended, far from it. If anything, she approved of pilots inspecting their own craft. After his initial visual scanning, Pershing was impressed. In less than a day, they swapped out anything broken and patched her up like new. He could not even spot welding marks.

He began to wonder if it was his fighter, and not a replacement. Even the small silhouetted paintings of a freighter and a pair of _Dralthi_ just beneath his cockpit canopy were not proof it was his ship. Admiring his work, Pershing could not help but feel empty at the accomplishment. Many pilots whooped at their victories, but not Pershing. No matter how many Cats he killed in Delius, his own world remained in their grasp.

Victory brought depressing memories to the surface of his mind. He did his best not to think about home for the whole voyage to Delius, and the raid through it. Now, now it was the only thing on his mind. What became of his home and his neighbors? Did any of them still live? The house he grew up in, the streets he once roamed, where any of them still intact? He did not bother thinking about his school. If that place was leveled, Pershing saw no great loss. Nothing he learned there could have ever prepared him for war, and the truly important lessons of staying alive.

It was not until he was leaning into the cockpit, checking the new instrumentation, that he heard an all too familiar voice. "Are you ready for the big push, Mailman?"

Contorting himself, Pershing looked down at Candy. "I was ready a few days ago."

"Hurry up and wait," Candy repeated the ancient doctrine of war. It was as true in the days that legions tore across Ancient Rome as it was in space. Technology and tactics change, the waiting never did.

"The waiting is the worse part," Pershing told her.

Candy waved her hand in the direction of the other eight _Scimitars_ of the squadron. They were parked in their alcoves well clear of the runway, each with at least two techs on inspection tours. Pershing could spot Snake Eyes going over his own fighter with the tech, discussing some technical matter or another. Pershing could not hear, and not just because Snake Eyes was soft spoken. The buzzing of electric vehicles and the rattle of carts was enough to drown out those distant words.

"The techs feel the same way. They can't stand waiting to see if their babies will return." Candy pursed her lips as she looked over at her own fighter, and a trio of technicians working on it. It galled her that the techs considered her baby to be their baby.

"Yes, but if the fighter doesn't return, the techs can get another one," Pershing pointed out. "If I get killed, replacing my own life isn't as easy." He suppose they could clone him, but it would be of little use. The original Marcus Pershing would still be quite dead.

"Alright, get down here," Candy said with authority. "Are you sure you're holding up well?"

Pershing obeyed the commands of his superior, climbing down to the deck. "I'm fine."

Candy was not convinced. "You certainly depressed everybody in the lounge."

Pershing shrugged a rather unprofessional shrug. "I miss home, I can't help that. Talking about fighting on the ground got me thinking about home, that's all."

"How much family do you still have there?" Candy asked. She was lucky enough to know where all her family lived, and that all were safe around the coastal city of Astoria.

Again Pershing shrugged. "I have no idea. If they survived the initial bombings, they're probably still around. War's nothing new to my family. I even have an ancestor that fought in the battle our ship's named after." When Candy raised a curious brow, Pershing shook his head. "No, not that Pershing."

At least he did not think he was related to General 'Black Death' Pershing, commander of the Federal army during the Battle of the Tennessee River. His family tree was preserved in times well before the third War between the States, and there was no indication that his Pershings had anything to do with those other Pershings. "I have no doubt that if they survived the fusion bombs, they would still be alive somewhere on Hurricane. I just wish I knew for certain."

Now Candy frowned. "I need you focused on this mission." What a mission it would be; while fighters from the _Victory_ were pounding away at the moon-based garrison, pilots of the _Libertè_ and _Tennessee River_ would spearhead the attack on Delius Station. Right behind their first wave would be the frigates of the Task Force. Even the destroyers and the cruiser _Tallahassee_ would take long-range potshots at the starbase. Not a weapon would be spared

Pershing sighed with some exasperation. Why were they ever talking about this? "Is it so unusual to worry?"

Candy relaxed her stance. "No, not at all. It's just that you had a distant look in you eyes at the party. I've seen that sort of stare before, in one of the previous pilots in the squadron."

"One that I replaced?" Pershing asked.

"No, different ship, and this was at Enyo. Before the battle, he learned that nearly his entire family was killed during a Kilrathi raid. He was never quite the same after that, and the look you have reminded me of him." Pershing could not recall Candy sounding so reserve in her speaking. He wondered if there was any sort of history between her and this pilot. He would not ask; he would not want anybody sticking their fingers in a wound like that on him, and planned to return the favor.

He did ask, "What happened to him? Nothing happy I'm guessing."

Candy shook her head sharply, sending her hair flapping. "No. He took off one day, and never came back. I'm not sure how he received clearance to fly alone, but he did" Her own gaze drifted far off for an instant. The instant ended as quickly as it began, and the fire came back to her eyes. "I don't want you flying off the handle like that."

Now Pershing wondered if she was actually concerned about him as a person, and not just a fellow pilot. "I didn't know you cared," was all he could think to say.

Candy gave him an amused smirk. "Losing a wingman looks bad on my record."

Pershing rolled his eyes before he caught the full meaning of her words. "Your wingman? What about Express?"

Candy explained the situation. "She'll be on Kali's wing. The flight's been shuffled a bit; Snake Eyes will be flying solo cover on one of the _Raptors_. One of Tolwyn's boys had a monitor explode in his face during the last fight, took the faceplate of his helmet with it. He still lacks a clean medical certificate. I suppose it could have been worse; he could have the whole canopy explode in his face."

Pershing had nothing to say to that. Words were not required. Victims of exploding cockpits tended to take longer to receive clearance. 'Not until Judgement Day', as the ship's part-time chaplain and full-time cook, a former Catholic priest who volunteered for non-combat service, would say.

"I'm touched by your concern, Candy, but there's nothing to worry about," Pershing finally did tell her. "I don't know what became of my relations, but I have every intent to live long enough to learn the truth. Perhaps even a few years after that too."

Candy smiled and slapped him on the back. "That's the spirit!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Clean Sweep**

**Chapter 6**

**Approaching Delius Station**

**Delius System**

"That's a large station," Pershing said, fighting to steady his nerves. He was not afraid, not of the Kilrathi. His fear ran along the lines of letting down his comrades.

"Makes it that much harder to miss," responded one of the _Raptor_ pilots in an accent Pershing could not quite place. She sounded like a cross between Swedish and Russian. Probably from one of those Russian colonies in the Alpha Centauri system, they always had strange accents.

Both _Raptors_ flew ahead of them, lining up on the large target. They were but bugs before the Kilrathi behemoth. Like anything other spaceborne structure the Cats designed or captured, Delius Station had countless sharp edges, and a few blades sticking out at odd angles. Many of the bladed edges were not far removed from daggers. They house pulse turrets, as well as missile launchers. For the moment, the four fighters, along with other quads, remained outside useful missile range.

For the moment.

"Relax Mailman," Candy radioed. He fighter flew along side Pershing's no more than ten meters too his left. "Just let the _Raptors_ worry about the starbase. You worry about enemies closer to your own size."

Pershing had not forgotten about them, though he expected to see far fewer than the briefing warned. Fighters from _Victory_ smashed the fighter garrison on the moon. Some of the explosions he could spot without sensor aid, as annihilation warheads simply vaporized ground installations. Pershing spend only a few seconds wondering how many Terrans were on the moon. The Cats, or at least the males that comprise their military, were not known as prolific builders. Everything built on conquered worlds not colonized with their own people were built by indigenous slave labor.

Did the same thing happen on Hurricane and McLeran? Pershing drove the images of his neighbors in chains with Kilrathi soldiers standing over them with rifles and whips. Those fail to live up to their overseer's expectations were killed. Or worse, they might even be eaten. No, those stories could not be true. _Rapier_ pilots, or at least the most veteran, told stories like that to rookies. Sometimes, they said, the Kilrathi spacemen were so sick of rations, they would tractor in escape pods and cook the contents.

"What, me worry?" Pershing said, shoving his musing to the back of his mind. "Why would I worry about a starbase. That's a threat I can see. The invisible ones worry me." Invisible fighters, now there was a truly disturbing image– so to speak.

"Glad to hear it," Candy replied. "We're about to cross the line. Don't forget to keep an eye on your decoy count."

For all the things Pershing was suppose to keep an eye on, perhaps a giant spider would be a better choice for a fighter pilot. Humanity has run into Giants, Lizards and Cats, but to his knowledge, not into any spider-people. There were even a couple of Varni serving in the Task Force, though not as fighter pilots.

In an instant, every alarm in his cockpit screamed for attention. At least it sounded like it, with all the racket they made. Perhaps he should start flying with his cockpit depressurized, just for some peace and quiet. His sensors tracked a swarm of Kilrathi missiles homing in on him, and perhaps some of the other pilots as well. He hoped they were FF missiles. If the Cats decided to fire their own image-recognizing missiles, he was in dire straits. The only chance he had was to fire off a missile from a wing hard point, and hope the sudden change in his fighter's outline confused the missiles. Terran IR missiles have been known to go stupid like that.

The four fighters banked sharply as one, releasing a stream of decoys behind them. Decoys were simple enough devices, just transponders with amplifiers built into them. FF missiles would home in on the loudest noise. Pilots could deactivate their own transponders as well, but that was a dicey proposition. Sometimes missiles will ignore objects without a signal; after all, they ignore rocks floating around in space.

Other times– other times were what worried pilots. Confed pilots without transponders had the habit of being shot down by their own carrier's automated defenses. Anything that flies in too fast without identification is targeted and destroyed. Fortunately, weapons were always manned, in the event the Cats got cute and put captured transponders on their ASMs. It was a rare gambit, since whichever side that fired the missiles might accidentally shoot them down.

All Kilrathi missiles launched towards Pershing detonated against decoys. Space behind him lit up brighter than the surface of Delius. Even not facing the explosions, Pershing still had to blink the glare from his eyes. Anybody who faced such blasts would be useless for a few minutes. Of course, anybody who faced them would likely be dead as well.

Evading the first wave of missiles, the quad shifted back on course for Delius Station. Al around the station, hundreds of small suns winked in and out of existence. Most were missiles on decoys, but not all. How many pilots on both sides were vaporized as fusion warheads detonated on contact with shields and hull. With no Cap Ships about, the Kilrathi had only their fighters for interception. His instruments counted some forty-three remaining Kilrathi fighters, a number dropping faster than their Terran foes. Perhaps a dozen fighters survived the earlier attack on the moon.

The moon in question was off in the distance, a half-moon against the backdrop of space. He did not expect to see anything over there, but that did not stop him from glancing. A garrison was tiny compared to any world upon it was stationed, thus would vanish with the tiniest of flashes. The moon looked a dead as countless other moons spread out across the galaxy. He spotted flashes far closer than the moon.

His comm unit blared to light as an omni-directional from the stricken _Dogwood_. The frigate was swarmed by the survivors of the moon, each pilot looking to avenge their fallen comrades. TCS _Dogwood_ remained far too distant to be seen visually. Pershing pictured the scene in his mind, a scene where the frigate was breaking in half, escape pods shooting out in every direction. He could not understand most of the message, but what he did chilled him. The Cats were flying nothing fancier than a _Krant_, without weapons to kill a ship. Two of the fighters, badly damaged with no hope of survival, turned their own fighters into missiles.

Earth had its own share of suicidal enemies throughout its history, either desperately defending their homes against impossible odds, or simply civilians with nothing to live for and so much hatred in their hearts. Whichever the Kilrathi were, the results did not change. Two exploding fighters overwhelmed the _Dogwood's_ shields and smashed through her hull. _Victory's_ flight controller tried to vector the carrier's own returning fighters to aid the frigate, but Pershing held out little hope for the ship. Perhaps with so many dangerous enemies about, the Kilrathi pilots would ignore the escape pods.

"We're on our run," the pilot with the odd accent announced. "Keep the Cats off our back."

"Will do," Candy spoke for the escorting duo.

Pershing kept his eyes open, scanning his sensors and the space ahead of him. He did not need to wait long for incoming enemies. A trio of _Sartha_, light fighters both agile and lightly armed, dove straight on to the _Raptors_. So focused were they, Pershing wondered if they even noticed the escorting fighters.

Candy was more vocal on the opinion. "How dare they ignore me! Mailman, let's go teach them a lesson." Candy broke formation and dove into the trio, scattering them with blasts from her pulse cannons. Several shots of million degree plasma smacked into _Sartha_ shielding. One fighter was positively aglow from the attention.

Pershing checked his sensor quickly, making sure no Cats were sneaking up from behind, before joining his wingman. He fired his own pulse cannons briefly, still unsure of the feel. Where Candy could hit what she aimed for, Pershing's plasma found nothing but endless space, and eventually Delius V below. The banded gas giant was not quite large enough to take up half the sky, but it was not from lack of effort.

Pershing gave up on guns in a hurry; these Cats were just too slick to keep in his sights. Instead, he toggled fire control over to one of his IR missiles. Supply officers gave pilots grief over firing them too often, usually something about quotas and budgets. This close to the _Raptors_ he wanted to make sure he destroyed the target. If the heavy fighters were not already locked on their own attack runs, they could have easily defended themselves.

Lock-on alarm beeping, Pershing let loose his missile. The _Sartha_ pilot had skill, that much was clear from kilometers away. The Cat unleashed a stream of decoys, believing the missile to be FF. The decoys worked, though not against Pershing's missile. He could hear Candy cursing the weapon that ran astray, and very sarcastically thanking Pershing for his assistance. The Kilrathi pilot thought the blast meant he was safe. He did not live long enough to grasp his error. Pershing's IR missile slammed through the _Sartha's_ dorsal shields, exploding right behind the cockpit.

Pershing did not celebrate his third fighter kill, nor would he until safely back on the carrier. He tried to find a fourth kill, only to learn that Candy destroyed one of the other three Cats and sent the third running. He would have to forget about that Cat, at least for the moment. He and Candy reformed on the _Raptors_ during the final three seconds of the run. Both heavy fighters pulled away sharply as their ASM payloads separated and bored in on Delius Station.

The missiles were not alone. Ten more pairs of _Raptors_ pulled away at the same instant. Kilrathi guns ignored the fighters and began to hammer away at the incoming missiles. Several blew up well short of the starbase. Pershing could hear one of the _Raptor_ pilots howl in rage as his anti-ship missile detonated kilometers away from its target. The second pilot lost his missile milliseconds later.

Only a handful of missiles reached their target. Flashes far brighter than any he had seen that day lit up orbital space. Pershing wanted to shout in triumph. More than a few pilots did just that. They were all rookies. Pershing heard not a single veteran celebrate, not until the light faded. Darkness returned to space and pilots cheers turned to gasps of dismay. Delius Station, though missing sections, still orbited Delius V.

Incoming fire died down to a trickle, but had not ended completely. Some of the Kilrathi were still alive on board the station. One half of the station remained silent, not a single gun firing. Were the defenders there dead, or just waiting for Terran fighters to fly closer. Many of the former sharp edges were nothing but shrapnel slowly drifting away from the station, to join the debris of smaller orbital fortresses that were destroyed.

"Looks like we'll have to rearm and take another pass," a _Raptor_ pilot said. "Ok you two, escort us back home."

Pershing could hear frustration in Candy's voice. "Alright, move it."

They were less than halfway back to _Tennessee River_ when Kali came on line. "Alright pilots, the next mission's scrubbed. We're to land, rearm, and join Tenn'Court B in escorting the Task Force out of here."

This close to victory? Pershing could not believe it. One more run on Delius Station would destroy it. They came too far to not finish the job. "What's the story, boss?" it was Ghost who asked the question on everybody's mind.

"Not entirely sure, Ghost. Task Force Intel intercepted Kilrathi communications. A Cat carrier group has just jumped into the system from Venice and is barreling towards us. No idea how many _Snakiers_ are in it. If I had to guess what was up, I'd say Admiral Bellemonte wants to quit while we're ahead."

It fit with what Pershing knew about the Admiral. Bellemonte was a cautious, conservative man, who did not believe in taking chances. Maybe they could beat the Cat task force, but Bellemonte was not about to risk trading his own ships in the process.

"Looks like you're a veteran now, Mailman," Candy said on their own private channel.

Pershing shook his head, though it was hard to notice the motion inside his helmet. "Let's not celebrate until we jump into friendly space. We can all still get killed between here and the jump point."

Candy hesitated before responding, surprised at his attitude. "And I thought Snake Eyes was the squadron's residential cynic. Have it your way; we'll all celebrate on leave. But Mailman, you're buying the first round for the squad."

If they made it back to Confed space, Pershing had no objection to being that much poorer. "Looking forward to it."


End file.
